


Getting Schooled

by hopeless_eccentric



Category: The Penumbra Podcast
Genre: Canon Non-Binary Character, F/F, Fake Marriage, Fluff, Humor, Nonbinary Juno Steel, Other, PTA mom Vespa, Teacher AU but like for a heist, begrudging English teacher Juno, bored theatre director nureyev, he's pretty and the world deserves to know, i still somehow shoehorned juno in a pretty dress in, minor appearances from the rest of the gang but they're in there, nureyev gets hit by two tables, nureyev sword fights a child, they have to infiltrate a high school and nobody has a good time, vaguely crack?, vespa catfishes a pta facebook group
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-11
Updated: 2020-08-17
Packaged: 2021-03-06 01:41:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 13,847
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25835158
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hopeless_eccentric/pseuds/hopeless_eccentric
Summary: Just to tear his gaze from the piece of paper, he looked up into the faces of the dozen people he had to fool for the sake of a very important heist. They returned his unsteady look with a single, consistent message scrawled across every face: they would rather be asleep than here.At least Juno could agree with them on that matter.“Good morning, class,” Juno winced as the words fell from his mouth with all the grace of dishes crashing forth from a cabinet. Their grumbled reply was at least empathetic. “I’m going to be your substitute teacher for the next week.”Updating daily!!
Relationships: Buddy Aurinko/Vespa Ilkay, Juno Steel & Vespa (Penumbra Podcast), Peter Nureyev/Juno Steel, Rita & Vespa (Penumbra Podcast), Vespa Ilkay & Peter Nureyev
Comments: 158
Kudos: 220





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you're all in for a wild ride. Kind of crack, but also a cohesive story and whatnot!
> 
> No content warnings for this one!! Pretty light chapter honestly! 
> 
> Whale fact: Juno is afraid of them

Even when the course of his life had forced Juno into business casual clothing, he had never been the type for button downs and pencil skirts and the chunkiest jewelry imaginable. Yet here he was, wrestled into all of the above and not enjoying a single damn moment of it. 

The air conditioner ran too cold, his nerves ran too hot, and it was decidedly too early for anything like this to be happening. If he was going to bear an eight hour workday in heels for an entire week, he’d rather start after seven in the morning. 

He looked down at the clipboard in his hands, squinting against the cruel fluorescent lights. About twelve names lined up on the page, as evenly spaced as soldiers waiting for inspection. Juno felt his face fall when he realized he could confidently pronounce less than half of them. 

Just to tear his gaze from the piece of paper, he looked up into the faces of the dozen people he had to fool for the sake of a very important heist. They returned his unsteady look with a single, consistent message scrawled across every face: they would rather be asleep than here. 

At least Juno could agree with them on that matter. 

“Good morning, class,” Juno winced as the words fell from his mouth with all the grace of dishes crashing forth from a cabinet. Their grumbled reply was at least empathetic. “I’m going to be your substitute teacher for the next week.” 

. . . 

“A goddamn English teacher?” was all Juno could manage when Buddy explained the mission to him a week before.

“Yes, and a very important one at that. Miss Keating, for whom you are filling in, was signed up to chaperone the school dance,” Buddy started. 

“What, are we going to do a heist during homecoming?” 

Buddy met his rolling eye with her steely one, and his bared frown quieted into a passive grimace. 

“Yes.” 

“My dear, I certainly wouldn’t mind another opportunity to see you in such a gown as the last,” Nureyev offered. 

“You’re one to talk. You get to babysit a bunch of kids who know what they’re doing. I have to read a book about a man-eating whale,” Juno retorted in the hopes of hiding his blush at Nureyev’s comment. Judging from Peter’s victorious grin, he had not done so successfully. 

“Buddy’s not done,” Vespa shot. Nureyev looked away while Juno cleared his throat.

“Thank you, Vespa. Our target is Mister Cetus. He holds a very large stock in the Board of Fresh Starts,” Buddy continued.

“And he’s a high school principal?” Juno cut in. “Sorry,” he added after Vespa looked like she might cut into him. 

“Our research’s best guess was power and tradition. There has been a long line of Mister Cetuses at that school,” Nureyev quickly explained, gesturing for Buddy to go on. 

“It is in technology that we find the problem. This particular asteroid enjoys far more traditional technology than we are accustomed to. They cite religious and philosophical reasons, but the specifics are of no matter to us. However, as such, the paperwork and certification for the stock are all saved onto the physical computer, rather than connected to the internet. Therefore, we need the computer itself.” 

“And why can’t we just steal the computer any time?” Juno pressed. 

“He’s rather anal about security, despite the cameras being what you or I might call ‘last season,’” Buddy half-smiled. “Sometimes a crowd is the best cover. I trust the three of you will be able to pull off the heist without issue. We will meet again tomorrow to organize your exact details of escape.” 

. . . 

So here he was, awake before eight in the morning, and praying the early hour wouldn’t fend off all the studying he had to do just to bullshit a week’s worth of lessons on Moby Dick. 

“My name’s Mister Laurence, though I’ll take Mister L or ma’am, if that’s too hard for you,” he sighed, giving the attendance records another glance before giving up and doing a headcount of the students instead. Thankfully, the numbers matched. 

A student in the back row raised their hand.

“Before you ask, I sat too close to the TV when I was a kid.”

The student put their hand back down. 

“Your teacher didn’t leave me a lot of notes,” Juno began. She didn’t really have the time. The big guy had the honor of kidnapping her and sending her off on an all expenses paid pleasure cruise while Juno got to muddle through a Melville-induced breakdown. “But apparently you’re all reading Moby Dick.” 

The faint rustling of nods was his response. He almost wished he had a rowdy class instead of twelve juniors mere inches from falling asleep on their desks. 

“Have you started?” 

Juno could only assume the low grumble meant “no,” and sighed. At least this gave him a few extra days to finish the book while the kids caught up. 

He had sincerely meant to finish the novel in that week before the heist, but there were two notable problems. First of all, the book was about a whale. Second, Juno was scared shitless of them. 

It wasn’t something that had ever come up in a case, and not something he had ever expected to, but the sheer scale of the gray whale skeleton in Hyperion’s museum of ancient natural history did a number on his psyche as a child. It was just that fears such as blood, heights, and relationships came up a lot more often than long-extinct water slugs. 

“Alright, then I’ll read you her notes on the introduction of the book,” he finally started. The class barely stifled a groan, and only professionalism kept him from joining them. “Moby Dick by Herman Melville was written in 1851 and based on the story of a real whaling ship that was wrecked when a bull sperm—“

Juno really wished he finished his sentence before Peter Nureyev, or rather, substitute drama teacher Mister Noble, flung open the door with all the bravado of a struggling actress from mid-twentieth century Earth. One of those long, old fashioned cigarette holders wouldn’t have looked out of place in his hand, nor would a string of pearls look out of place around his neck. 

Juno thought he had a lot of nerve being dressed to kill at half past seven in the morning. He didn’t usually mind it when Nureyev fixed him with that insatiable wine red grin, but he really wished it hadn’t made its presence known during a conversation about rampaging sperm whales. 

“Good morning, my dear colleague,” Dimitri Noble, rather than Peter Nureyev announced. Juno had to cover his mouth with a ring-clad hand to fight back a laugh. The crew had only managed to rent two apartments for the three members down on the planet, meaning two were forced to share. Juno certainly didn’t mind offering to play married. In fact, he enjoyed it a little more than he should have. 

However, playing ‘married to Nureyev’ had one major downside he often forgot to consider. He wasn’t playing ‘married to Nureyev’ as much as he was playing ‘married to Nureyev’s latest alias.’ 

On one hand, Nureyev’s married aliases were usually some shade of Duke Rose. Sometimes, they were merely Duke Rose hidden behind another name and a different sense of fashion. Juno never had any complaints there. 

On the other hand, Mister Dimitri Noble was the substitute drama teacher. 

“Morning,” Juno acknowledged. Nureyev beamed as if Juno had written him a thousand love letters in those two syllables alone. 

“It seems I have found my office entirely void of writing utensils. I was wondering, hypothetically, if you might be able to part with one of those pens in that, dare I say, quite tasteful Shakespearean insult mug of yours?” Nureyev half-monologued, passionate enough to wake a student or two up. 

He was leaning on the doorframe as if the doorframe were a set piece, built only to bear his weight while he crossed one long leg over the other and fixed Juno with the kind of look that shouldn’t ever accompany such a mundane question. Juno swallowed. 

“You wanna borrow a pen?” 

“Yes.” 

Juno rolled his eyes, but gestured for Nureyev to come into the room nonetheless. He didn’t have any right looking that good in business casual, though Juno supposed he could probably pull off a potato sack with minimal effort. Overall, the effect was very distracting, but certainly better than discussing whales for any longer than necessary. 

“You want blue or blue?” he snorted, hoping his pulse didn’t visibly jump when Nureyev strode over to his side and laid a hand on his arm. 

“Quite the array of options,” Nureyev began, faux deliberation crossing his face. “I think I feel the blue one calling me.”

“You’re an idiot,” Juno grumbled upon turning his back and rummaging for a pen. Nureyev grinned like he had won something. 

“I love you too,” he returned, his voice low enough that only Juno could hear it.

“Here.”

Juno tossed the pen in Nureyev’s general direction, watching those clever fingers close around it with ease. Soon, the pen was half-vanished behind Nureyev’s ear, and Juno couldn’t help a laugh. 

Peter Nureyev was never the type to look particularly bookish, even when he exuded Rex Glass’s air of academia. With a pen behind his ear and a copy of Romeo and Juliet pressed to his chest, Juno could almost see him as the substitute he pretended to be. Something in his chest fluttered at the sight and he felt his cheeks grow hot. 

“Is there something on my face, dear?” Nureyev teased. 

“No, uh—”

He hadn’t realized how long he had been staring at the charming scene before him until a student’s comms let out a thunderous buzz and shattered the moment. 

“Well, I suppose then, I must be forced to leave your presence,” Peter grinned. Juno rolled his eyes. “Parting is such sweet sorrow.” 

“Have fun with your pen,” Juno teased as Nureyev left with a wink and a grin that for the sake of the very tired, very teenage, and very captive audience, he had to pretend wasn’t making his stomach do flips. 

“Who was that?” a kid, the most awake-looking of the bunch, asked. 

“Mister Noble. He’s subbing for the drama teacher,” Juno explained. “What do you say we get back to that whale?” 

He got a vague grumble in response. Perhaps the students preferred the company of ‘Mister Noble’ as well. Perhaps they’d prefer anything over Herman Melville. Juno couldn’t really disagree with them either way. 

. . . 

Juno soon learned Nureyev didn’t have a first period class, and thanks to being in charge of a fairly self-sufficient group, didn’t have any reason to use his planning period either. As such, he had resolved to torment Juno with his presence at ungodly hours of the morning. 

He also had a habit of waltzing in at the absolute worst times to do so. 

“So in last night’s reading, which I hope you all did,” Juno began, words droning from him as they fell off the page of notes the English teacher left behind. “We learned that Captain Ahab’s leg was bitten off and eaten by—”

“Good morning, my darling!” Nureyev beamed, poking his head through the cracked door and quite clearly hiding something in his hands. 

“Good morning, Mister Noble,” Juno sighed. “Care to join our discussion on man-eating whales?”

“Oh, quite the contrary,” he chuckled, so light and lovely Juno had to grip the edge of the chalkboard just to ensure the floor hadn’t fallen out beneath him. “The pen I borrowed yesterday is long gone, I am afraid. I thought I would bring you an olive branch.”

Juno raised an eyebrow. Nureyev produced a cup of coffee and a pastry from behind his back. 

“You know, whale-induced amputations aren’t ever great for my appetite, but you might just have me convinced,” Juno said, trying and failing to fight back the warm laughter in his voice. He was pretty sure he heard a student groan. 

“I must admit something to you,” Nureyev continued, guilt suddenly flooding his voice as Juno took the peace offering and set it down on his desk. 

“Yeah?”

“I’ve found myself in need of another pen.”

Juno’s groan was an affectionate one, but he threw the pen at Nureyev nonetheless. Once again, Nureyev caught it without breaking a sweat, almost as if it was his partner in some elaborate, avant garde dance. 

“You’d better not lose this one again. Can’t have you distracting my class forever,” Juno pretended to grumble. 

“If it means seeing you again some other time, I’m afraid this pen will be forced to slip my mind,” Nureyev grinned, then turned on his heel to leave the classroom. 

Most of the week came and went without issue. Nureyev joined him for lunch breaks and consoled him through his rage at the sheer word count of certain novels about certain whales, while at the halfway point of the allotted hour, they would switch and Nureyev would complain about low-energy sword fights and total misunderstanding of Shakespeare. Juno almost preferred that his afternoon classes were rowdier. It was at least something to fill the silence that wasn’t him or another class discussion on the meanings of certain symbols. 

When Friday came, the closeness of homecoming buzzed in the air like ozone heralding the presence of lightning. Even the quieter morning classes broke their stony silences to share pictures of suits and dresses. When Juno said he’d be chaperoning, he was all but bullied into pulling up a picture of his gown on his comms. 

The compliments were nice, even if they were coming from a small army of teenagers. He only lied a little when he admitted that his husband helped him pick it out. 

Even though the notes had instructed otherwise, Juno thought he’d keep the lesson short. They’d review a few symbols and if that didn’t take too long, he’d give them time to start the assigned reading in class. He knew well they wouldn’t use the time allotted, but he didn’t particularly care. 

“Your teacher noted an honestly kinda morbid parallel she thought was interesting,” he began that morning. The words had started to feel a little more like his own as the week went on, even if he’d survived the lessons by reading extensively about the book. He had long since graduated high school, and as such, had a right to never touch a book written before the twenty ninth century again. “The narrator, Ishmael, survives the wreck by clinging onto a coffin. Some of the real crewmen of the ship Moby Dick was based on survived by killing and eating teenage sailor Owen Coffin—”

“My darling, I hate to interrupt a conversation as lovely as this,” Nureyev started, all but waltzing into the room. Juno was pretty sure he heard a few students sigh, relieved at the arrival of a distraction. 

“Go ahead,” Juno snorted. 

“Ah, well, in that case, I suppose there are far more important things we must discuss. Notably, your birthday.”

It wasn’t Juno’s birthday. It wasn’t even Mister Laurence’s birthday. With the glowing look on Nureyev’s face and some kind of gift clearly concealed behind his back, however, Juno didn’t particularly mind. 

“Aw, how old are you?” a kid from the back of the room piped up. 

“It’s rude to ask a lady his age. Twenty six, for all you know,” Juno joked, turning his attention back to Nureyev and barely caring that in setting down his book, he had completely lost his page. 

When he looked back at Nureyev, there was a bouquet in his hands and a look in his eyes so soft that Juno could barely manage to meet them. 

“Happy birthday, my dear,” he grinned. Juno really, really wanted to blow the entire heist and kiss him right then and there. 

“Let me guess: you need another pen?” Juno laughed, taking the bouquet and placing it in a decorative vase on the desk. He was almost certain the students could see his hands go a little shaky. 

“Would it hurt my chances of seeing you at the dance this weekend if I said yes?”

Juno rolled his eyes. “You’re my ride. Of course you’re gonna see me.”

He threw a pen in Nureyev’s direction nonetheless. 

“I just wanted to make sure, my love,” Nureyev beamed, leaving with just as much of a flourish as he had entered. 

Juno caught himself staring at the empty doorway when a student in the front row cleared his throat. 

“Do you two, like, know each other?”

Juno laughed. 

“Yeah. That’s my idiot husband.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warnings for a fake sword fight, mentions of stabbing, vague allusions to a fictional death, and theatre kids

While Juno was muddling his way through the wonders of mid-nineteenth century American literature, his ‘idiot husband’ was forced to handle the mortifying ordeal of directing unenthusiastic fourteen year olds whose parents wanted them to be ‘well-rounded students.’

Nureyev had hoped for a well funded theatre program with numerous older kids and some student leadership in place. Instead, he found himself in the midst of teenagers who read death monologues like drill manuals and performed sword fights with all the zeal of physical therapy exercises. 

The few times per day he escaped to bother Juno, purposefully barging in during whatever morbid whale facts the curriculum insisted seventeen year olds know, might have been the best part of his entire day. The rest of it was spent with the most shockingly unenthusiastic troupe of theatre kids he’d ever seen. 

That wasn’t exactly the entire issue. Several students, notably the leading pair, were enthusiastic, but painfully confused. While the story was certainly understandable, especially for one already acquainted with Romeo and Juliet, it required a certain effort to enjoy the stilted lines and tired action. By Thursday, his patience for mediocre Shakespeare was long since spent, and he had stopped enjoying himself altogether. 

However, he had long since resolved to put actual effort into this job. First and foremost, he didn’t intend on being fired before the heist. On a less impersonal level, his crewmates had kidnapped the theatre director just over a month before opening night, and he intended on leaving the theatre program no worse than he found it in the director’s absence. 

The last thing he wanted to do was botch something this important to even a few students, even if his job was just to keep his position for a week, steal a computer, and leave this planet forever. As such, he made the decision to put actual emotional stock in the production of the play. 

This meant tips and direction, usually given in the form of yelling from the audience or the foot of the stage. His direction was certainly far from professional, but seemed to be making some sort of positive difference nonetheless.

He did his best to remedy everything, from the simple fixes (“Do try to sound less confused!”) to the deeper issues (“Young man, you do realize she’s dead, correct? This should be at least a little upsetting.”), and after a few days, he was able to take a certain pride as things fell into place. 

Even if he wouldn’t be around to see it, he hoped the play might be made half-bearable with his help. 

At the very least, the build crew seemed to have the set and props under control. They remained self-sufficient enough to give him a period of peace. He even offered his help once or twice when he had long since memorized the school’s blueprints, but the students turned him down. 

The more difficult class was with the actors. 

Running the class was easy enough. He’d run an act per day with whatever sets or props were available and occasionally interrupt and gesture vaguely at the stage until the students got their blocking right. 

Bearing the class was a different matter. 

It was clear which soliloquies were used as audition material, as they were almost passable as human speech. However, it was equally clear which students had been begged to partake in the theatre program, whether it be by peers or parents. 

One student in particular caught his eye as out of place. Despite having the acting experience of a weevil, her grip on the prop sword and the fencing emblem on her jacket were enough to tell Nureyev exactly why she had tried out for the play in the first place. 

It also made her utter rage at the half-hearted whacks of her costars a lot more understandable. 

“Pardon,” Nureyev began one afternoon, breaking off what should have been a tense fight to the death and instead resembled an advertisement for sleep medication. “Has this scene been choreographed?”

He bit back a few crueler words. As frustrated as he was with watching the same drowsy production of Romeo and Juliet for the majority of a week, he had to remind himself that Dimitri Noble was very invested in the success of these students. Just because he was going to disappear from the planet in a number of days didn’t mean he had to be an unpleasant presence while he was there. 

A smattering of nos answered him from the stage. 

Well, it was a Thursday morning, and he didn’t have anything better to do. Might as well duel a child. 

He stood from his seat in the mid-audience and strode up the stairs onto the stage, struck without warning by an odd realization. Even surrounded by the likes of Juno, Rita, and Vespa, who would refuse to admit Juno had about a quarter inch on her, he often forgot his own height. Nureyev felt all the taller in the midst of a hoard of intimidated teens. 

“I feel it would be out of place for me to choreograph this fight myself,” he began, running a hand through his hair thoughtfully. “However, I don’t think a demonstration of proper sword technique would hurt.”

He held out a hand for the actor playing Mercutio’s sword. The kid seemed glad to be rid of it, and also glad to take a few steps back. 

Nureyev tossed it once in hand, giving the blade and grip a look. How a school of this caliber had attained proper metal swords, albeit blunted ones, was beyond him, but he certainly didn’t mind. As much as his line of work made him use plasmacutters, he couldn’t help but adore the glint of stage lights off the metal or the way his sharp, bared smile reflected off the blade. 

“Lovely,” he murmured, mostly to himself. “Young lady, I take it you’re familiar with swordplay?”

The actress playing Tybalt nodded. Nureyev grinned. 

“Classically or practically trained?”

“Classical? I mean, I don’t—like—stab people.”

“I’ll alter my swordplay accordingly, then. What do you say we show them a real sword fight?” he offered. “After you.”

It was nine in the morning, he was wearing six inch heels, and he was going to sword fight a child. 

It wasn’t exactly the weirdest thing he had ever done for a heist, but that was coming from someone who once falsified the existence of an entire library just to convince a wealthy woman she had already been robbed. 

The student took him up on the offer and lunged, a dangerous move that left her somewhat open to attack. Nureyev wasn’t looking to end things that quickly, however. He fully intended on having fun, and he was almost certain the student intended on that as well. 

He also doubted the student’s experience with swordplay was alike to his experience with knives. He wasn’t sure what classically trained meant, but he was almost positive maiming your opponents was not part of the craft. He would merely have to refocus his efforts on parrying the blade, rather than looking for openings on any vital organs. 

While sword fighting wasn’t exactly his go-to way to stab someone, it was certainly his favorite. There was little as exhilarating as the clanging of one sword against another, arms flying and wrists flicking as challenges and jibes were exchanged in tandem with blows. 

“Usually my opponents aren’t this talkative,” she laughed after Nureyev’s victorious yell at a particularly challenging parry.

“No offense,” he began, breaking to spin and catch her blade above his head. “But I think you ought to get better opponents.”

“None taken.”

He had never considered himself much of a dancer, as much as he had managed to pass as one at numerous balls and galas. He could certainly learn and perfect such dances, but only after hours of work and the mind-numbing repetition of steps until they became muscle memory. 

Nureyev much preferred the kind of dance where one’s partner was two blades away, twisting and jabbing and spinning to the percussion of metal on metal and shifting, shuffling feet. He supposed he could even see the appeal of becoming ‘classically’ trained in such an art. He never particularly enjoyed a duel if he knew it would end in blood. The thrill of the chase tasted a little sweeter when he knew it would come to no bitter end. 

He would have to teach Juno how to do this sometime. 

Nureyev knew his thoughts had tarried onto Juno for too long when he realized he had left an easy opening. The student seemed to realize this as well, and struck, the dull blade coming to a stop mere inches from his heart, resting atop one of his chest scars as he lowered his own prop weapon. 

“Touché,” Nureyev grinned when the student extended her hand. He took it and gave it a single, firm shake. “Now that, my dear students, is a sword fight.” 

. . . 

“No way,” Juno snorted. He paused to take a bite of his sandwich before continuing. “This place doesn’t even have the funding for two security guards. There’s no way in hell they have swords.” 

“I wouldn’t come into your classroom and fabricate stories now, would I?” Nureyev said, faux offense dripping from his voice. 

“I dunno. Depends on how many days of the same Shakespeare play you’ve had to watch,” Juno teased. “You’re probably getting bored.”

“You wound me, my love. If I had made the story up, I would have won.” 

Juno considered that for a moment. 

“Alright,” he started. “I’ll bite. What was the kid’s name?” 

Nureyev’s face fell. Juno stifled a laugh. 

“No, don’t get that look on your face—“ Nureyev began to protest. “They do attendance themselves.”

“Yeah, right.”

“Juno, I’ve visited your first period class every day this week and I’ve yet to hear you take attendance once,” Nureyev shot back. It was Juno’s turn to go red. “That’s what I thought.”

“Speaking of which, my first period class found out we’re married, and now they won’t give me a moment of peace,” Juno chuckled. 

“Was it such a mistake for Mister Laurence to marry Mister Noble?” Nureyev teased. A soft little smile had crossed Juno’s face when he said the word ‘married,’ and Peter could only hope it was from the same warmth flooding his own chest. 

Juno took his hand across the table and gave it a little squeeze. 

“Never in a million years.” 

Nureyev grinned. 

“Good. We have a rather hot date this weekend, and I was hoping I wouldn’t have put a damper on it,” he beamed, eyes lost on the shade of mauve stain adorning Juno’s lips. 

A roll of Juno’s eyes diverted his attention upwards once more. 

“Sure. Nothing more romantic than a sweaty, crowded gym.”

“You seem to forget we won’t actually be participating,” Nureyev mused. “Besides, I could enjoy your company anywhere, my love.” 

“Mhm.” 

“You underestimate yourself, Juno. You’ve made Martian tombs bearable,” he added kindly. Juno failed to suppress a blush. 

“So, do you think that’s better or worse than a high school gym?” 

“Oh, most definitely better,” Nureyev joked. “A Martian tomb crawling with guards and a tentacle monster is a luxury resort next to that.” 

“Not exactly our classiest job,” Juno snorted. 

“Well, they can’t all be dazzling galas with you, my dear. At the very least, you’ll get to stun me with that gown of yours.” 

“I thought you picked it just because it had ‘good knife accessibility,’” Juno teased. 

“Of course! But more importantly,” Nureyev grinned, heart skipping a beat when he saw Juno’s gaze fall onto his mouth. “You look ravishing in light pink.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well. Nureyev checking himself out in the blade of a sword might be the most in-character part of this entire chapter
> 
> Thank you all so much for reading!! Make sure to smash that kudos button and leave a comment below!!
> 
> Yell at me on tumblr @hopeless-eccentric!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the moment you've all been waiting for. PTA MOM VESPA

Vespa wasn’t sure who was going to die first: her patience or that bitch Kathy from the PTA. 

Her two-month infiltration of the local parent-teacher association had gone well enough. Rita helped her make an online profile that only posted cleverly edited stock photos of her ‘son,’ recipes for home-cooked meals, and the occasional arts and crafts project. 

In all her years as an assassin, Vespa had done a lot of things she wasn’t proud of. This was very, very high on that list. She had seen so many skinny chicken alfredo recipes and ways to craft with popsicle sticks (number five will blow your mind!) by the second week that she was almost ready to call it quits on the heist altogether. As a part of a team, however, she no longer had that option. 

Even if she hated every moment of the job so far, that didn’t mean she wasn’t going to do it right. Though the crew hadn’t so much as set foot on the asteroid, she managed to cultivate enough of an online presence to blend in with other concerned, community-focused parents. 

With some help from Rita, things were going, if not swimmingly, not-drowningly.

“Are you positive?” Vespa asked, gesturing vaguely at the screen of her comms, which displayed a picture of some kind of Earth vegetable in a garden. 

“Yeah, Miss Vespa! I ran a program on all the other PTA members and they mostly post garden stuff and so-so inspirational quotes! Your green peppers are gonna fit in perfect,” Rita returned, though her chipper smile turned to a frown at the sight of Vespa’s caption. 

“What’s wrong with it?”

“I dunno...I just don’t think ‘this is my vegetable’ is very convincing,” she said. 

Vespa groaned. “I knew we should’ve had someone else do this.”

“No! You’re gonna be just fine. You just have to figure out what kinda stuff to say first,” Rita insisted. 

“Like what?”

“Live, laugh, love, or something.”

“Sure,” Vespa started. “This is my vegetable. Live, laugh, love.”

“No, not like that. More like...uh…”

She knew Rita was just trying to help, and the fact of the matter was that whatever Rita would come up with was better than anything Vespa, or anyone else for that matter, could probably do on their own. As much as she wanted to cut Rita off, she settled for a pointed sigh and hid the rest of her retort behind her coffee mug. 

“Ooh! I got it!” Rita proclaimed. 

“What should I put?”

“I live, laugh, love this vegetable garden!”

They both winced. 

“Are you sure?” Vespa asked. 

“Nope! But we can work on it.”

They settled on ‘So proud of my vegetable garden! My Timmy planted this one.’ It wasn’t their best, but it was passable. After a few weeks, it seemed the account had made enough passable posts with enough passable captions that other parents began to take notice and follow back. A few strategic compliments on blog recipes later, Vespa had earned herself an invitation to the PTA an entire month early. 

‘Helen,’ however, was a doctor. She had lives to save and places to be whenever a parent invited her to meet in person. Unless, of course, that invitation fell during the exact week Vespa would be down on the asteroid. 

The plan was easy enough. Pretend to be a concerned parent. Attend a PTA meeting. Volunteer for homecoming. Strike. However, Vespa wasn’t green enough to pretend even easy plans couldn’t fail. 

Even though no solid plan B could be put together until the week of the heist, she could certainly prepare for an emergency. Gaining acquaintance with these parent volunteers was only the first stage of her onslaught. In any group of people, no matter how outwardly nuclear or suburban, there were politics. And politics could be exploited. 

She couldn’t come to the PTA meetings packing heat, nor could she solve any unforeseen issues with violence, at Buddy’s insistence. That didn’t mean, however, that she had to come to the meetings unarmed.

When a string of polite, mostly-written-by-Rita comments underneath a quinoa recipe turned friendly, Vespa gained the first of many weapons in her arsenal: an invitation to a private group chat. 

She could hardly believe her luck when she noted the president of the PTA was not a member. 

The next weapon was handed to her with almost as much ease. A few cautious, prying questions had the handful of parents mere inches from holding open the doors to an armory. 

Kathy, the president of the PTA, was hardly referred to without an expletive beside her name. She commanded the word “bitch” about her the way Buddy commanded respect or Juno commanded a roll of Vespa’s eyes. 

Vespa had to admit she was almost enjoying the rhythmic pinging of the chat room as rumor upon rumor slandering, or perhaps just proving the character of this Kathy individual piled up. Her hand ached from noting all of it down, but she could hardly pry her eyes from the screen long enough to care. 

One said Kathy was in bed with the vice president’s wife. Another said she was in bed with the principal. Some suggested she might have lined her pockets with earnings from a bake sale or even bribed a few voters to get her sister on the school board. 

Vespa didn’t particularly care. She didn’t even care if it was true. The PTA was quietly teetering on the edge of a coup d’etat, and even a light push might send things over the edge. All of it played directly into her hand. 

And it was also kinda funny. 

“Buddy,” she called one morning, nodding her fiancée over, as her hands bore equal vice grips on her comms and coffee. “Get a load of this.”

Buddy set down the kettle she had been about to fill and strode across the kitchen. Even dressed in a pajama set, hair still partially flattened by sleep, Vespa thought she was the most beautiful thing she had ever seen. 

“What’s the matter, darling?” Buddy started upon sitting down at Vespa’s side. 

“Look at this recipe Linda just sent to the group chat. Nobody should do that with hotdogs. There oughta be a law,” Vespa began, breaking away from what was about to be a minor tangent when she saw the barely-repressed smile on Buddy’s face. “What?”

“I assume you’re on a first-name basis with this ‘Linda’ individual?” she continued. Her lips were tight with the effort of holding in a laugh. Vespa felt her heart swell in response. 

“She’s just one of the parents in the chat,” she protested, as if there were anything to protest. 

“Is she the one who called Kathy a ‘pitiful excuse for a life form’ or is this the one who accused her of blackmail?” Buddy chuckled, soft and sweet. Vespa didn’t think she had any right to be making her stomach do acrobatics before she’d even finished her morning coffee, but she also didn’t think she had it in her to complain. 

“Blackmail.”

“Ah, I see,” Buddy continued. After a pause, she ceased fighting the smile and let that glowing look bloom over her face like the sun finally cresting over the horizon. With someone looking at her like that, Vespa felt she could pluck the stars from the sky by hand. 

“What’s that look for?”

“It’s just nice to see you so invested in your work. I missed that about you, my darling,” Buddy smiled. “You always were quite the strategist.”

Something in Vespa’s stomach twisted at the word ‘were,’ and the shadow of Peter Ransom creeped into the corner of her eye. She fought back a wince. It would be the same old song and dance as ever, just Ransom voicing all her worst insecurities and chortling when she showed a physical response. He would tell her she was a failure, a burden, and that Buddy was doing herself a disservice by keeping her around, and he would say all of it like the words were sweet as honey on his lips. 

Then Buddy fixed her with the kind of look that made Vespa feel she could kill God, and Ransom got a little quieter in the periphery. 

“I don’t know if this is respectable enough to call it strategy.”

“Nonsense, darling,” Buddy all but beamed. “I doubt just any thief could plot a revolution as a backup plan.”

Vespa snorted. 

“Sure. You’re not just flirting with me or anything, like you always do when you’re looking at me that way.”

“I’m positive,” her fiancée replied without an ounce of sarcasm in her voice. “I don’t know exactly ‘what way’ I’m looking at you, but it’s good to see you back at work again.”

Vespa squeezed her hand across the table. 

“Yeah. Good to see you working too, Bud.”

“And that recipe makes me thankful I’m allergic to food,” she added, and Vespa couldn’t help but crack up. 

. . . 

Vespa was almost looking forward to a condo of her own, if only for a week, until she found out exactly who she would be sharing a wall with. On the bright side, the walls were a little thicker than those of the Carte Blanche, and she managed more sleep than she had expected. Unfortunately, when coming out onto the porch for some coffee and good old-fashioned peace and quiet, she found her view of the twin sunrise partially obstructed by a pair of lovebirds, for lack of a better word, canoodling. 

She was too tired to be mad. At least they were canoodling quietly. 

Instead, she turned her chair to a different patch of horizon, watching as the first of six smaller, satellite asteroids began to set in the early morning hour. After a little while, she could almost forget she wasn’t entirely alone. The scene was gorgeous in its own right, even if she had unwanted company. 

The only thing that might make any of this better was Buddy. Vespa hadn’t expected such a place as this to make it onto her list for honeymoon suggestions, but this sunrise was making her reconsider that. Vespa had been a great many places in her life, often with Buddy at her side. She had seen natural and man-made wonders alike in every corner of the galaxy, but there was a quiet beauty to all the celestial bodies rising and falling in the sky. 

She wished she could see those little sparkling lights reflected in Buddy’s eye. 

Before Vespa could lose herself in soft thoughts while waiting for the coffee machine to beep, she felt her comms buzz instead. She glanced down at the screen, read the message, then whipped around to glare at Juno, one balcony over. 

Ransom must have been unaware, for his head was still thoughtfully turned towards the sunrise. Juno, on the other hand, had turned his head to mouth the exact same message he had just sent. 

“Nice khakis.”

“You’ve got a lot of nerve, Steel,” she growled back. Her suspicions regarding Ransom were confirmed, for he yelped and reached for a weapon that was not there until he seemed to register who had spoken. “What were you going for with that skirt? ‘Ideal juror?’”

“Hey—“

Ransom covered his mouth, but gave his laughter away when he bent double, even under Juno’s responding glare. 

“You’re supposed to be on my side here.”

“You can defend your own honor,” Ransom returned, continuing to fight a wheeze. 

Juno, to his credit, shut up. He made a rude gesture behind his back first. Vespa returned it in kind. 

Was it a little petty? Yes. Had Steel started it? Also yes. 

Besides, if she was forced to justify it, perhaps this might count as practice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> please comment suggestions for petty things pta moms can say about each other in the later chapters
> 
> Thank you all so much for reading!! Make sure to smash that kudos button and leave a comment down below!! 
> 
> Yell at me on tumblr @hopeless-eccentric!!


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This gets really soft 
> 
> Content warning for mentions of a past breakup/abandonment, vaguely implied issues with aging

Juno didn’t have the fondest memories of high school dances. There were exactly two high schools in Old Town when he was younger, both overcrowded and underfunded and reeking of too-strong perfume and not-strong-enough deodorant. With hardly anywhere else to go, however, it was just about tradition to attend both proms and both homecomings. 

He tried that for about one year, but after his nice pair of heels couldn’t take the pressure and gave up entirely, he decided it was about time to do the same. That wasn’t to say he didn’t attend any dances. He took Mick and Sasha to homecoming all four years and even took a date to senior prom. He’d planned to take a date the year before, but was stood up. 

The message came two hours late, long after sweat and a few more tears than he was proud of began to make his eyeliner run. His date wouldn’t be showing up. No reason given. 

He borrowed makeup remover off of the first stranger who had any and rushed to the bathroom to smear away the hour of effort he’d put into a date who never had the common decency to show up. He’d spent almost twenty minutes on the eyes alone, though the dark blue and gold smeared away in under a minute, as if it had never been there in the first place. 

Juno didn’t have to try very hard to remember how the alcohol-heavy makeup wipes stung his face while a drunk girl he had never met told him he deserved to look beautiful, but if he wanted his makeup off, that was okay too. A song he could barely remember thrummed from the gym while she slurred bold words of support and validation under the numbing fluorescent lights of the bathroom. 

That night, he hiked his skirt up and walked home. He barely had the energy to spare the gown, as hours before he had felt so beautiful in that swirling, dazzling shade of blue. Now he just felt discarded. 

He gritted his teeth and pulled the fabric away from the street, however. If the dress was ever going to sell after this, he needed it clean. 

With those memories still burned into his brain, he had expected to hate volunteering for a school dance a lot more than he actually did. However, it was hard to think about that evening with the feeling of Nureyev’s hand in his and the soothing tones of sensible jibes and casual conversation from his fake-husband. Hell, it was hard to think about the heist he was supposed to be enacting. 

The gown had been Nureyev’s choice. Even though longer skirts were beginning to ebb out of fashion in circuits such as these, Peter insisted, claiming they were better for hiding weaponry and making a joke or two about hiding the stolen computer if all else failed. 

Juno sincerely doubted that. The thigh-high slit didn’t even leave his leg up to the imagination, let alone any potential hidden knives. He could barely fit an emergency blade or two in the top of the dress. 

He wasn’t a detective anymore, but he sincerely doubted it took skills of deduction to put together exactly why Nureyev had insisted on the gown. He knew it was Juno’s favorite color and he wanted an excuse to see him in it. For as dark and unknowable as Nureyev’s motivations had seemed when the pair initially met, years of their partnership had made them far clearer. 

Juno liked pink. Nureyev liked him in pink. Ergo, the gown. 

Perhaps the slit and the jeweled embroidery had been a bit much, but he certainly didn’t mind. Regardless, the gown was almost plain next to some of the more outrageous numbers the students had arrived in. 

“God, and I thought my hair was bad when I was a kid,” Juno leaned over to mutter towards Nureyev. 

“I wouldn’t know, dear. You’ve staunchly refused to show me a picture,” Nureyev smirked. 

Vespa, who was about a half hour from ending her shift at the front door, shot them both a glare. 

“Quit kissing over there and make sure everybody coming in has a wristband,” she shot. 

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Dammit, I quit being a narc years ago,” Juno grumbled. 

“I must admit to you, I don’t think you ever made a very good lawman. I’m sure you remember the Utgard Express incident as well as I,” Nureyev mused, waving at a student or two as they passed. 

“Is that the kid you tried to stab?” Juno snorted. 

“Fake-stabbed, darling, don’t jump to accusations,” Peter protested. “And I only think it was her. It’s hard to tell under all that fabric. Besides, she stabbed me.”

“So you really just waved at a kid and hoped you knew them?”

“It’s as crowded as an ultimate boomerang golf tournament, and loud enough that I would consider our conversation essentially private. If that was, in fact, the student who attempted to stab me, then it was polite to wave. If not, I’ll just assume that the student will assume that I was waving elsewhere,” Nureyev shrugged. 

Juno nodded his response. When the closest thing to a silence their environment could manage passed between them, Nureyev checked his watch. 

“It seems our shift at the door has nearly ended. Perhaps we might be able to sneak away for a moment before our other obligations require us,” he grinned, teeth looking a little sharper than usual in the fairy lights decorating the otherwise drab lobby. 

He extended a hand, gloved in black silk. 

“That’s a hell of a proposition, Mister Noble,” Juno said, an eyebrow raised. 

“Maybe later, my love. For now, I merely want to dance with the loveliest lady here.”

“You sure we won’t get caught leaving?” Juno chuckled. 

“My dear,” Nureyev started, taking Juno’s hand in his and pressing it to his lips. Juno couldn’t help the racing of his heart when he saw the scarlet imprint left behind by the gesture. “We were stationed as a pair to keep an eye on each other. I don’t see why we couldn’t do so elsewhere.”

“Fair point.”

The gym was bigger than the one at Juno’s alma mater, but emptier too. The brunt of the student body had congregated around the music machine at the far end of the floor, likely to distance themselves from teachers and parent volunteers. Juno couldn’t blame them. He would have done the same as a kid, at least until Mick got hungry and Sasha got stepped on and they all mutually decided it was best to pile into the cafeteria, take their shoes off, and let the adrenaline high crash. 

Dancing had always been his brother’s thing. It felt wrong to hang around the dance floor for the entire night. 

Thankfully, school dances were the one occasion where they weren’t mistaken for one another, even though the lack of a glare and a slouch was usually enough to tell Benten from Juno. Benten always wore suits, and they always fit him as if they’d been tailored to the quarter inch. Juno always preferred a gown, especially after his freshman year, when the pair had accidentally rented the same tuxedo. 

Nureyev, still holding his hand at shoulder-height as if leading him to the dancefloor of a ball hundreds of years in the past, stopped when they reached a dark and empty corner of the room. 

“I thought you might appreciate some space and privacy,” he explained, face breaking into a grin as the tune ended and shifted to something slower. 

“You didn’t bribe the lady running the music machine, did you?”

“Don’t be a fool, darling,” Nureyev chuckled, his smile bright enough to light up their little patch of dancefloor without the help of any strobe lights. “Of course I did.”

“You’re an idiot.”

“A fool for love,” Peter corrected, laughing glowingly as Juno rolled his eye. “May I have this dance?”

“Nobody else is gonna take it.”

Juno barely knew if his feet were still on the floor when Nureyev pressed the two of them together and began to lead. He was kept on the ground by two points of touch: one of Nureyev’s hands clutching his own and the other resting atop the small of his back. 

When a pair of students stumbled nearby, Nureyev pushed them closer together under the guise of dodging the kids. Juno couldn’t complain. The feeling of Peter’s fake wedding ring pressing into Juno’s back sent a wave of heady warmth through his chest. 

“You look exquisite, darling,” Nureyev beamed. “Especially this close to me.”

Juno wished he had the words to repay the compliment, but it seemed they had joined the ranks of all the other things Nureyev had stolen. 

“You too,” he choked. From the look on Nureyev’s face, he might as well have written him a sonnet in those two syllables. 

He couldn’t see nearly as much of Nureyev as he wanted to. The lights were low, save for streaks of red and white and green that burst in strange designs from some sort of machine near the source of the music. However, he couldn’t forget the hours spent adjusting and readjusting that tie if he wanted to. Maybe once the evening had ended, he could appreciate that navy blue velvet and perhaps, try to put his adoration into words. 

“You know,” Nureyev started before Juno could manage a compliment in return. “I wish I could have met you earlier.”

“No, you really don’t. I haven’t shown you that haircut I used to have for a reason.”

“Perhaps I phrased that wrong,” he continued, still swaying to the music, though the expression on his face had gone from far-off joy to just far-off. Juno felt something in his gut twist, and he could almost remember the smell of those makeup wipes from junior prom again. “I wish I could have spent more of my younger years with you.”

“I—“ Juno broke off, a little unsure of how to respond. “I’m just glad I met you at all. I don’t really care when it happened, so long as it did.”

“I suppose so,” Nureyev sighed. His mouth remained tight, though Juno felt his posture loosen when he laid his head on his shoulder. 

“What’s going on up there in that head of yours?” 

“I have to admit to you, I’ve become somewhat distracted this evening. I’ve found myself thinking over a few hundred hypotheticals. Perhaps—well, I suppose I just never got to go to an event such as this,” he explained. Juno gave his hand a little squeeze, and the remaining tension drooped away. “I think it would have been nice to take you to one. I would have thoroughly embarrassed myself, but I think I would’ve had quite the time in the process of doing so.”

“You know, I don’t think that would’ve been half bad,” Juno smiled, looking up and pressing a mauve kiss to Nureyev’s cheek. “I think I would’ve been worse. I don’t know what I’d do around someone as good looking as you.”

“You flatter me, darling, though I’m afraid I would be no better. I’d yet to meet a goddess when I was a teenager. I would have been stumbling all over myself like a baby giraffe.”

Juno snorted. 

“Sure. And how old were you when you met your first goddess?”

Nureyev paused to think. 

“Thirty six. Perhaps thirty seven. You see, I was meant to be stealing a key and a mask from a rather petulant detective. Quite the riveting story. I must tell you it some time,” he beamed. Juno tried and failed to hide his blush behind an eye roll. 

“I don’t mind being a little more experienced, though,” Juno laughed. “At least you weren’t my first kiss.”

“I didn’t assume so. The first one we shared was—” he broke off with a grin. “Something.”

“The one where you mugged me? Yeah, I’ll say that was something,” Juno teased. 

“If it’s any consolation, I regretted that of all the people I had to kiss and mug, it had to be you, my love. I’ll admit, however, that I enjoyed doing so greatly. If you wanted me to kiss and mug you any time again, you need only ask.”

“Go for it.” 

Nureyev didn’t take any more convincing than that to close the space between them, feet coming to a standstill and arms shifting so he could hold Juno close while simultaneously cupping his cheek. 

Juno was left breathless when they finally broke, hardly caring that the song had changed. 

“Put my wallet back,” he laughed when air decided to return to his lungs. 

“My apologies, detective,” Nureyev chuckled. “I thought you wanted the whole package.”

“You’re an idiot,” he smiled. 

“Your idiot.”

“My idiot,” Juno confirmed as he felt his wallet slide back into the lining of the dress. “What do you say to one more dance? I think we’ve got time before Vespa’s shift is up.”

“I think that’s an excellent idea.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Woohoo!! I'm soft. Also it's canon that Juno calls his hidden knives booby traps
> 
> Thank you all so much for reading!! Make sure to smash that kudos button and leave a comment down below!
> 
> Yell at me on tumblr @hopeless-eccentric!!


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning for some minor hallucinations

By the end of the night, Vespa wasn’t sure whether Ransom, Steel, or Kathy was dying first. 

From various message boards, group chats, and private messages, she had pieced together that the president of the PTA was a bit of a tyrant. They had to be exaggerating to some extent, however. At least that’s what she thought. 

At the first meeting, the homecoming volunteer shift and a whole lot of guilt-tripping had been thrust at Vespa before she could even open her mouth. Kathy threatened the secretary to tears for missing the last meeting for a funeral and loudly complained that there were no meeting minutes. She left early, didn’t help clean up a single chair, and called Linda a bitch for wearing the same pants as her. 

Vespa really, really wished Buddy had let her come to these meetings armed, or at least openly belligerent. She wished even more that the timeline of the heist would let her stick around for a second meeting so she could give Kathy a piece of her mind without retribution. 

If all went well, she wouldn’t get that chance. They would steal the computer and disappear into thin air, or rather into Jet’s escape car, which sat a few blocks away, pretending to be a very expensive limousine. 

However, Steel and Ransom seemed hellbent on making sure the heist didn’t go to plan. 

She still had a half hour left on her shift at the door when Ransom whispered enough sickly sweet nothings in Juno’s ear to convince him to disappear off to God knows where and potentially put the fate of the heist in danger. To their credit, they returned, albeit with Ransom sporting a not-so-subtle mauve smear on his neck. Against their credit, they returned with only two minutes left on Vespa’s shift. 

“You assholes,” she shot as soon as they just about waltzed back into the now empty lobby. “You couldn’t have focused for one goddamn minute?”

“Two hallways were closed off,” Ransom began, cutting off Juno’s retort. Steel grumbled something, but thankfully, shut up. “That gives us only two escape options. Either we walk past the rather crowded cafeteria, or we crawl out through the vents.”

“Great. I wore my favorite vent heels just for the occasion,” Steel murmured. 

“I’m not stupid. What was Steel doing, looking for exit routes on your neck?” 

“Playing married,” Ransom grinned. Juno blushed. Vespa gagged. 

“Yeah, well maybe play married and work at the same time, okay? People are gonna start leaving soon, so the halls are gonna get crowded,” she returned, stuffing the extra wristbands back into their box and turning to face her companions. “I’ll leave first. You two go find a kid to yell at or something and cover me. If we have to split up to leave, we split up to leave.”

She pushed past and out the door before anyone had time to do more than nod. 

As averse to the job as she’d been at first, the semantics of the heist made her feel a lot better. Even if she had to dress like a suburbanite parent to do so, this was the closest thing to working alone she’d done since coming aboard the Carte Blanche. Ransom and Steel were her cover, rather than the ones doing the thieving. 

It felt good. It felt really, really good. 

Even if it wouldn’t make sense for numerous staff and parent volunteers to approach the principal’s office at once, Buddy insisting she steal the computer alone was a heavy weight off her shoulders. She trusted her to do this, and she trusted her to do this right. 

However, a second weight was beginning to replace the first as the pounding of distant bass buzzed in her bones and the dimly lit hallways passed, drab and mazelike. It was one thing to earn and have this trust. It was another to deserve it. 

“There’s no way she’s not gonna fuck this up. She’s crazy,” a distant Steel snorted. A distant Ransom laughed cruelly. 

“Right you are, my love. What makes her think she really deserves that trust? As much as I hate to discredit Buddy’s word, I do think she has made quite the mistake in entrusting such an important mission to someone so incapable.”

Vespa’s lip curled, but for the sake of the small herd of adrenaline-drunk students walking alongside her, she bit back any kind of retort. Besides, Steel and Ransom weren’t raising their voices. There wasn’t any way a real person could talk that calmly and still be heard in a place like this. 

The hallway gradually emptied around her, and she breathed a sigh of relief, left only with dim lights and the honeycomb of square lockers and the far-off thrum of music. There was a certain kind of vertigo to the hallway and all those repeating squares of metal and cinderblock and faux-tile on the floor. In the low-light, they swirled and buzzed like the faint sounds from the gym, kept only visible from the glow beneath the principal’s office door. 

Behind her, she heard two sets of heels clicking and felt some measure of relief. 

“Young man, as dashing as I find that ensemble of yours, it’s also a blatant violation of the school’s ‘no-organic-feathers’ policy, and as such, I’m afraid I’ll have to write you up for it,” Ransom was sighing. 

“Dimitri, come on, let the kid enjoy himself,” Steel protested. “Look, I know it’s technically a school event, but he doesn’t need you ruining his night just because the dress has a couple feathers on it.”

“My dear, I would love to act less strictly, but I have been informed that the environmental policies at this institution are of the utmost gravity.”

They continued on like that for some time, alternating between arguing like coworkers and an old married couple. After a while, the kid escaped. Ransom just found some other minor dress code violation to chew someone out about while Juno protested, and the cycle began anew. 

With her head clearing and the light drawing ever closer, Vespa lay a hand on the doorknob and gave it a slight tug. 

Nothing.

“Rita, can you hack the lock?” Vespa hissed, holding her comms close to her ear and hoping the glow wouldn’t be too bright or blatant in the near-black hallway. 

“I’m already on it, Miss Vespa!” Rita returned, about blowing out Vespa’s eardrum in the process. She had no idea how Steel had done this for twenty years. 

“Sikuliaq, have you found any closer parking spots?” She asked while still on her comms. 

“There are none I am aware of. I will keep you updated if I move the Ruby 7,” Jet returned. 

While Rita clicked away on a keyboard miles above, Vespa tried to keep an ear out for any nearby people. Ransom and Steel’s argument seemed to be fending off most visitors, student or otherwise, but she still felt uneasy about the light being on inside the office. 

Her co-conspirators warned her it might still be on, and that the presence of a light didn’t necessarily mean the presence of Mister Cetus. He seemed to leave it on at all times out of sheer habit. 

Vespa thought she heard movement nearby, but didn’t have the time to discern whether it was the real Ransom and Steel, her mind’s Ransom and Steel, or perhaps someone else entirely when the lock on the door clicked. 

“Done! Go get ‘em!” Rita announced. Vespa didn’t regret turning the volume on her comms down. 

She laid her hand on the doorknob and pushed. It yielded, and the door opened with a creak and a pair of screams from within. 

Vespa locked eyes with Mister Cetus. Then with Kathy. Then with a handful of things she wished she could unsee. Then with the computer, on the other side of the recently and haphazardly cleared-off desk. 

“Oh, uh—” she started before Kathy could even begin to shoddily redress. “There was an issue.”

“Yeah. Yep. I’m sure there was. An issue with this goddamn lock,” the principal shot, and kicked the door closed before Vespa could say another word. 

For a moment, she just stood in the hallway, blinking away the spots of light in her eyes and hopefully, the image she just saw. Then she turned and ran. 

“What the hell?” Steel asked when she rejoined them. 

“You’re not gonna believe me.”

“Where’s the computer?” Ransom pressed. 

“In the office,” Vespa panted. “He was in there. With that asshole from the PTA.” 

“Were they—” Ransom started to ask, then trailed off. Vespa was sure the queasy look on her face had answered his question. 

“We’ve still got another few days. We might have to do something about security, but there are three of us for a reason,” Juno returned. 

“That’s quite the pretty thought, but realistically, how—”

Vespa’s smile broke Ransom off. 

“What?”

“There’s another PTA meeting on Monday.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> omg who could've guessed kathy would do something like that
> 
> Thank you all so much for reading!! Make sure to smash that kudos button and leave a comment down below!!
> 
> Yell at me on tumblr @hopeless-eccentric !


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warnings for mentions of heartbreak, implied cheating, and some minor office destruction
> 
> AKA Nureyev rolls a one on seduction and breaks a table in half

“Oh, my dearest,” Dimitri Noble laughed. “Perhaps you should have pursued a career in comedy, rather than one in high school security.”

It had been a while since Nureyev needed to charm someone for a heist. He certainly hadn’t planned to do so on this particular mission, but their plan b called for a distraction, and right on cue, Dimitri Noble had reapplied his lipstick, undone another button on his shirt, and sauntered into the security office. 

Like the computer, the security cameras ran through ancient streams of technology. That made them near-impossible to hack. Lucky for Peter, however, that made them very easy to distract someone from and in a pinch, even easier to break. 

The security guard chuckled as well, going red. Nureyev bared a practiced grin and the red darkened into a shade close to purple. 

“Are you alright, darling?” Nureyev continued. He let that casual pet name ache in the air between them for a moment before pressing on. “You look positively…” 

He trailed off, teeth pulling at his lower lip in thought. 

“Sick?” the guard suggested. 

“Enchanted.”

“Ope.”

There were a lot of things said in that “ope,” all of which Nureyev had no intentions of unpacking any further than necessary. Over the shoulder of the security guard, he could see a grid of flickering, gray monitors. Juno paced square to square, checking his watch and doing a rather impressive act of pretending to be lost in the school’s halls. 

Nureyev filed the clenching in his chest away for future consideration, and turned back to his target with a hungry smile. 

“What’s a gentleman such as yourself doing in a place like this, anyway?” Nureyev mused, leaning against the table on which the monitors sat. He reached a hand towards the security guard’s coffee mug and traced one manicured nail around the rim, slow and languid and as purposeful as the extra button he had undone on his shirt. 

“Working, I guess.”

“That’s a shame,” Peter sighed, as if those three little words had broken his heart in two. “This mug of yours—Number One Dad?”

“I—uh—” the security guard started. He had flushed once more, and Nureyev buzzed with triumph. “Not married. The ring’s for—uh—fun.”

“Good,” Nureyev grinned. He leaned a little further back onto the table and relished that straining creak it made in response. 

“Aren’t you?”

Nureyev slid the fake wedding band off his finger and into one of his pockets with a little smirk. 

“Not this afternoon.”

It made him about half sick to do so, even if he wasn’t engaged, let alone married to the lady who held his heart in his hand. Seduction had been so much easier before Juno Steel had crashed into his life and left a smoking hole where his independence and common sense and half of his brain function seemed to be. He made things easier for a little while. Spite was a surprisingly efficient fuel for those more heated distractions, but it tasted a little more melancholy than usual nonetheless. 

Nureyev resolved that whatever happened, he would do no more than whisper honeyed words at the sputtering security guard until he got exactly what he needed. He caught Juno looking up at a camera out of the corner of his eye, and as if it were a squeeze to the hand or an affirming glance, he felt a little better. 

“What’s that supposed to mean?” 

“Perhaps I wasn’t being blatant enough,” Nureyev purred, launching to his feet and yanking the security guard close by the lapel. With his other hand, he sent the guard’s coffee flying into the monitors.

“Shit.”

“We all make mistakes in the heat of passion, my love.”

“Yeah, I—uh—” the security guard began again, then broke off with a shake of his head. “Shit, it’s drenched the computer. It’s okay, I’ll pay for it—heck, I don’t think it’s even broken—but gee whiz! How the hell am I gonna explain this to my boss?”

“Well, I suppose there’s nothing we can do about it now,” Nureyev thought aloud. So it wasn’t broken. He’d have to try again. 

“Yeah. Yeesh.”

“Out of curiosity, will leaving the coffee on there for—” Nureyev paused to check his watch, then fixed the guard with the kind of grin Rex Glass had smothered Juno with when they first met. “A half hour or so make the damage any worse?”

“I don’t think so,” the security guard returned. He raised an eyebrow and stared Peter down, so he made sure he put on a hell of a show. One leg propped up on a chair. The other on the floor. Shirt hanging half open. 

The silence in the room was palpable. 

“Are you in need of an invitation?” Nureyev laughed, practiced breathlessness filling his voice. 

“Nope.”

The guard went in for a kiss a little too enthusiastically, giving Nureyev the perfect chance to kick the rolling chair away and go tumbling back against the monitors. Several shattered with a satisfying crash, blinking images of Juno as they died. Peter couldn’t help a grin, despite the ache in his elbow from crashing against the plastic and metal. 

“Geez, buddy, are you alright?” the guard gasped. 

Nureyev merely laughed. 

“Unlucky in love, it seems. Help me up.”

The guard extended a hand to assist him. Nureyev took it, then buckled halfway up. He was hoping just to fall again and shatter a few of the remaining monitors, but apparently his grip was enough to bring the guard, the table, and the remainder of the security system crashing into the floor. 

He wasn’t the biggest fan of being on the ground, especially not on the floor and underneath four broken monitors, a computer, a sexually repressed security guard, and a table. Thankfully, most of the debris seemed to have rolled away. The security guard, on the other hand, had not. 

He supposed he’d been in stranger positions for the sake of a heist, however. 

“Must our love be star-cross’d?” Nureyev sighed, freeing a trapped arm to clean dust from his hair. “I assume you’re still alive up there?”

“Mhm,” the guard grunted from atop the table. He rolled off and away, and Peter took a gasping breath, now left with only the cheap cork table pinning him down. “Jeezy creezy, pal. You okay?”

“I’m good,” Nureyev returned. He held a hand on his comms so the message might double as instructions for Juno, heart swelling upon hearing that whispered voice in response. 

“On it. Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” he said. Even though he could make out the security guard through the crack in the table, the two larger shards thankfully hid his lovestruck grin. 

The security guard made it to his feet, still bracing on the wall and panting when he looked back down at Nureyev, who had yet to find reason to move from his bed of crunched tile, dust, two halves of a table, and his shattered dignity. He doubted much more than his legs were visible. 

“You need help down there?” the guard asked, sheepish. 

“If you’re offering it, I don’t think I would mind,” Nureyev groaned. He tried to sit up, barely managing to poke his head out from between the halves of the table. He could only assume he looked horrible, but it was nothing a rendezvous with a bathroom sink and mirror couldn’t fix to avoid questioning on the way out the door. 

“Yeah, here—” the guard started. Peter took his outstretched hand without any other intentions this time, standing on shaky legs and surveying the damage he had done. 

Nureyev had broken hearts in his life, leaving one-night or one-day or even one-week lovers in empty bedrooms with only a note that smelled of cologne and nostalgia and lipstick wax, signed with a fake name and a kiss and a stylish form of melancholy he wore like the black veil on a newly widowed murderess. 

This was perhaps the messiest way he had done so. There was no air of three act tragedy in the sight of those shattered screens, a broken table, and the coffee that still dripped away from the pieces of the security office as it went cold. 

“My apologies,” he started, though the guard didn’t seem to hear. He too was surveying the damage. “Your career was not what I came here with the intention of destroying. If necessary, I will take the entirety of the blame.”

“This is a dumb question, but are you free some other time? Maybe we can meet somewhere with less valuable things everywhere,” the security guard asked, voice shaking with sheepish laughter. 

Nureyev pointedly returned the wedding band to his finger, then laid the hand atop the man’s shoulder. 

“You’re right. That was a dumb question. My dear, I’m not quite the type to believe in signs and symbols, but I think I would have to be blind to miss this one. I just don’t think you and I were meant to be,” Peter sighed. He lowered his hand, and offered it. 

The security guard took it and shook, looking a bit like he was signing his own life away. 

“At least your mug is intact,” Nureyev pointed out to the man whose table he had just broken in half. 

“Yep. Yeah. At least the mug is fine.”

There was a painful silence. 

“I should really go,” Peter choked after a moment. The security guard nodded like the weight of the world had been lifted from his shoulders, and without another glance at the broken table, marriage, and quite possibly, rib he had left behind, Nureyev departed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> king shit
> 
> Thank you all so much for reading!! Make sure to smash that kudos button and leave a comment down below! Comment or I'll break your tables
> 
> Yell at me on tumblr @hopeless-eccentric!


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're done folks!! No content warnings, this one is pretty light!!

“What the hell happened to you?” Juno nearly gasped upon sight of Nureyev, half-coated in dust and looking the closest to ruffled Juno had ever seen him. His glasses fell askew and something that might have been coffee was drying in his hair as he shot his companion a pointed look. 

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

“You sure?” Juno pressed nonetheless.

“I got hit with a table.”

“Jesus, are you alright?” 

“I am. The table, on the other hand, wasn’t so lucky.”

Juno swallowed. “Is that coffee in your hair?”

“Yes,” Nureyev hissed, his back colliding with the wall beside Juno as he took a deep breath. “In case you were wondering, all the monitors were destroyed.”

“I’ll take your word for it,” Juno snorted. 

“I’ll have to tell you about it once I’ve recovered some of my dignity,” Peter returned, the corner of his mouth twitching.

It was one of those moments Juno wouldn’t have ever seen from Rex Glass, Duke Rose, or now, Dimitri Noble. Every alias smiled boldly, wearing the confidence of a king and the seeming invincibility of a god like it was a coat. Only Peter Nureyev existed in shades and half-smiles. From the intimacy of it all, Juno wished he could kiss that look off his face right then and there. 

There was work to do, however. 

“Hey,” he said instead, and offered Nureyev his hand. Peter gave it a little squeeze. “Did something happen?”

“I love you,” Nureyev returned, utterly unprompted. 

“Are you okay?” Juno asked. The timing of the heist felt like a physical weight upon his shoulders, but for the first time in years, Nureyev had allowed himself to look truly bad. That wasn’t something he intended on brushing off. 

His shirt, so carefully arranged that morning, was wrinkled and bared half open, revealing a red mark on his breastbone that was already beginning to bloom into a bruise. Nureyev’s gaze was fixed on a blank spot on the floor as his chest heaved, as if all the air had recently been punched out of it. Juno assumed that was the table’s work. 

“I’m fine. Nothing horrible happened, at least not to me. I can’t say the same for the wreckage of the security system, but that’s not really my burden to bear,” Nureyev reassured him. “Why?”

“You looked upset,” Juno pressed.

“This has all become a lot more difficult since you and I have been a pair, that’s all.” 

Nureyev looked up to meet Juno’s eye. He felt himself soften a bit at the sight of his face, though he scoured it for any grave expression nonetheless. 

“Did something happen that you weren’t comfortable with?” 

“No,” Nureyev sighed. “I suppose that’s the problem. It would have been much cleaner if I had allowed him to so much as kiss me.” 

“Honey, we’ve talked about this. I don’t care if it’s for work,” Juno smiled, relief sagging from his shoulders. 

“I don’t mind either—frankly, you’re quite the spectacle when flirting for a mission,” Peter cut himself off to chuckle. “It was just a good bit harder than usual, so I let myself get sloppy.”

“Yeah, I put that much together.”

Nureyev raised an eyebrow.

“Beg pardon?”

“If it had gone well, you wouldn’t look like—”

“As if I had just been hit by a table?”

“Well—yeah.”

“The show must go wrong, my love,” Peter laughed, giving Juno’s hand another squeeze before returning it to his side. “Besides, he wasn’t my type anyway.” 

“I really wish you’d been assigned anywhere other than the theatre department,” Juno groaned. 

“Speaking of which, while I’m still catching my breath, would you like to explain to me where exactly the computer is?”

Juno’s face fell. 

“You know how the principal was supposed to leave early today for his kid’s dance recital? Well, if I’m putting two and two together with Vespa’s intel, he’s got a hot date with the president of the PTA after this and he doesn’t plan on leaving his office any time soon,” Juno explained. Nureyev’s brow drew tight in focus. 

“We likely don’t have much time until someone on staff finds out about the security system. I doubt that would make a suitable distraction, as you and I would fall under immediate suspicion,” Nureyev thought aloud. “Myself especially.” 

“Shit,” Juno breathed. 

“Shit, indeed.”

Juno braced himself as he raised a hand to his comms.

“Bad news,” he started. 

“What the hell did you—shut up, Brenda, it’s my mom!” Vespa called from the other end. 

“Looks like our pal Mister Cetus decided not to go to his kid’s recital after all. He’s still in the office, and we’ve only got a few minutes until they find out about the security system.”

“Did dad bust his goddamn hip again?” Vespa groaned, then continued in a hushed tone. “Get him out of the office yourself, Steel. I’m in a meeting.”

“How much can they hear on the other end?”

“Well, they wouldn’t be able to hear anything if Deb over here could keep her nose out of other people’s medical crises!” 

“Bless your heart,” someone Juno assumed to be Deb muttered. 

“I don’t know what you expect me to do, mom,” Vespa pressed forward, spitting the title as if it burned her mouth to hold it there for any longer than she had to. “Come over there and fix the hip myself?”

“You are a doctor,” Nureyev interjected. 

“Keep dad off the phone, I can’t handle both of you right now.”

“My apologies, dearest.”

Vespa made a noise like she was swallowing vomit. Juno couldn’t blame her. 

“Just curious, but how much hell would you have to raise for the guy to hear it from his office?” Juno pressed forward, trying to keep the smile out of his voice at Nureyev’s repressed chuckle. 

“Not much. It’s across the hall. What are you getting at?”

“Do you think he might leave his office if he heard this Karen lady blow up?” Juno continued, feeling the corner of his lip tug. 

“Kathy,” Vespa corrected. 

“Right. Still—“

“Funny how some people think every conversation is about them, huh?” Vespa added, a little louder than was necessary. 

“Yeah, weird. Think you can raise enough hell to get the principal out of his office for a little while?”

Vespa didn’t answer, at least not directly. 

“Hey, Kathy, did your colorist kick the bucket or do your roots always look like an accident? Speaking of which, how’s your fifth kid? Apparently he’s the spitting image of your boss!”

Juno took that as a yes and hung up before he choked to death on his own laughter. Nureyev was turning a shade of red Juno had never seen before, fanning himself and clearing his throat. 

“I suppose that’s our cue to begin,” Nureyev managed. Juno wheezed. “Shh, darling, reschedule your asthma attack for a later date. I think I might die if I don’t hear this in person.”

Juno did his best to pretend that even after all this time, his heart didn’t leap when Nureyev took him by the hand and took off down the hall, just under a jog. With his height, Juno was running to keep up. 

“Dammit, Nureyev, I’m in heels,” Juno hissed. 

“As am I.”

“You’re the worst.”

“I pride myself on that.”

Though the office was a few halls away, Juno heard the commotion long before he saw it. 

“You’ve got a lot of nerve talking to me like that for someone whose nails look like they were done during an earthquake!”

“Young lady, you take that back—“

“Get your flat ass over here. We’re taking this outside.”

The pair sped around the corner, only coming to a stop outside the office for Juno to bend double and catch his breath. 

“Good lord,” Nureyev laughed. Juno snorted. 

“You knock. I’ll look distraught and sneak in.”

Nureyev’s hand left Juno’s if only to pound his fist on the door of the principal’s office. 

“Sir, it seems there’s a minor crisis—” he started, cut off as the door swung open.

“You wanna start by explaining why you look like you just got hit by a table?” Cetus snapped, giving Nureyev a once-over. 

“Well, you see, that is quite the funny story, because—“

“We all know good and goddamn well you didn’t win that election! Did you fuck the entire board, or just the principal?” Vespa’s voice rang out from the other side of the hall. Mister Cetus’s face darkened. 

“I’ll handle it.”

“Vespa, get out of there. Take a vent or a window or whatever, I don’t care, just run. Ransom and I’ll catch up to you,” Juno hissed. 

“Dueling isn’t illegal on this asteroid, you know! If you wanna go, I’ll go! Pistols at dawn, bitchboy!” she finished. “On it. Sikuliaq’s got the car two blocks away. I’ll tell you if we move it.”

“Great,” Juno returned, and hung up. 

“You take the computer itself. I’ll take the monitor,” Nureyev murmured, already shedding his coat to contain the bulky piece of plastic. “Good lord, it must have been hundreds of years since this institution changed its technology. I conquered most of the security system with my elbow and a cup of coffee, and now this.”

“Yep,” Juno groaned under the weight of the rectangular object he could only assume to be technology of some sort. “It’s a lot heavier than what we’ve got back home.”

“You’ve thrown me over your shoulder like a house fire victim, Juno. This shouldn’t be an issue,” Nureyev teased, bending over to assist with the cords. 

“Are you still mad about that?”

“When I moved into your quarters permanently, I was expecting to be carried over the threshold like a bride, not a sack of potatoes,” Nureyev grumbled. 

“Love you too,” Juno snorted. He tucked the console under his arm with the help of a knee that was definitely going to bruise tomorrow. When the console was secured, he offered Nureyev a hand up. “How ‘bout an olive branch?”

“You might have earned peace, but not forgiveness, you brute,” Peter joked.

Juno’s witty remark was shattered by the sound of a breaking window one room over. 

“Kiss my ass, Kathy! Linda, tell the kids I say hi!” Vespa cackled, voice growing quieter and quieter as she escaped. Anything else she might have said was covered by the sounds of shoved desks and chairs and the general chaos left in her wake. 

“I think that’s our cue to get the hell out of here,” Juno said. 

He had entirely forgotten his hand was still outstretched until it suddenly bore Nureyev’s weight. He made an attempt to tear it away with a yelp of surprise, jumping at the touch as much as the bang of Peter’s head colliding with the underside of the principal’s desk. 

“Shit, are you okay?” he gasped, laughing breathlessly as Nureyev got to his feet and fixed him with a pointed glare. 

“We should leave.”

“Yeah, I’m right with you there,” Juno snorted once he saw Peter’s face lighten into a half-smile. 

“Agreed. I’ve had enough of tables for a lifetime.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nureyev vs. Tables Round Two: Fight!
> 
> Thank you all so much for reading all the way through! Make sure to smash that kudos button and leave a comment down below!!
> 
> Yell at me on tumblr @hopeless-eccentric!
> 
> Hell, might as well tag my twitter @withane22 (not really penumbra, but we're vibing)

**Author's Note:**

> The only time you'll read a t-rated fic about Juno being a sub 
> 
> Thank you all so much for reading!! Make sure to smash that kudos button and leave a comment below or I will boil your teeth :D
> 
> Yell at me on tumblr @hopeless-eccentric!!
> 
> (Props to anyone who caught the Dead Poets Society reference ;D)


End file.
